


Clarity

by Katuary



Series: Rose and Thorn [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age: Origins Quest - The Arl of Redcliffe, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fighting, Flirting, Redcliffe (Dragon Age), Your father was WHO now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katuary/pseuds/Katuary
Summary: "So Alistair was the bastard son of King Maric. They were being hunted both as the last of the Fereldan Wardens and as competition for a contested throne.He"probably should have told her earlier”was certainlyoneway of putting it."After Alistair reveals his birthright at Redcliffe, Elissa needs an explanation.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age)
Series: Rose and Thorn [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1510469
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Clarity

Elissa was in a foul mood. 

It had been a long, grueling march from Kinloch Hold, originally slated to take three days before the failed attempt on their lives. Loghain spending the coin on not just any sellsword, but an _Antivan_ _Crow_ made a great deal more sense once they finally reached Redcliffe.

So Alistair was the bastard son of King Maric. They were being hunted both as the last of the Fereldan Wardens _and_ as competition for a contested throne.

He _"probably should have told her earlier”_ was certainly _one_ way of putting it. If she was sharper than necessary with Redcliffe’s villagers, she would have to apologize after they survived the night.

There were a few exceptions, of course; she had come perilously close to losing her patience and bashing Dwyn and Lloyd’s smug faces with the hilt of her dagger. Useless louts. If they were going to stay instead of running for help, they could do better than barricading themselves in their homes. Dwyn especially. Holding three trained mercenaries, himself included, back from the fray was a special brand of selfishness and cowardice. Seemed there was one of those sorts in every stop they visited.

Then there was Alistair, still quipping away regardless of her stony demeanor. She’d very nearly cracked and laughed aloud at something he’d said in the blacksmith’s home, but had covered it with a strained cough. 

Maker, was she truly taking the time to gather her thoughts, or was she actually _trying_ to stay cross with him? The man hadn’t a vindictive bone in his body—she had once caught him apologizing to a stump he’d tripped over—and his only crime was likely ignorance. Or perhaps he didn’t want to risk one of their growing party having extra incentive to sell information on their whereabouts.

He could have told _her_ , at least. If he was going to continue deferring to her leadership, he could at least do her the courtesy of full disclosure. She was working off little enough information as it was. 

* * *

It took all day to rally the villagers to better defend themselves, leaving a bare hour to rest before night fell and the undead returned. Elissa turned her full attention to Alistair for the first time in hours, somewhat mollified he had the decency to look remorseful. She nodded toward the nearby docks.

"We need to talk," she said shortly.

"I..." He smiled nervously, "...aren't we talking now?"

Elissa glanced pointedly at the chantry, where Leliana and Wynne were keeping an eye on Zevran, their would-be assassin. She clenched her back teeth. _"Privately."_

He followed her to the docks, sitting uneasily next to her when she dangled her legs over the edge. At least they were far enough from the surface of the water at that height; Lake Calenhad was dubious enough for a dip in the best of times, and Maker knew what lurked below the surface with the village haunted.

She sighed, kicking half-heartedly at the underside of the planks. There was no point in prolonging this further. "Why did you keep your birthright a secret?"

"You...never asked?"

"That's a cheap answer. We're the last Wardens left in the country, and you thought this couldn't _possibly_ be relevant to the task at hand?"

She shook her head, trying to dissipate a fragment of her anger; he didn't deserve so much of her wrath. “And...I thought we were friends.” _Juvenile_. She shrugged to brush off the word and scoffed. “Or at least that you trusted me enough not to turn you in to Loghain.”

"We _are_ friends." He moved to face her fully, awkwardly shifting most of his weight to one knee, "I didn't mean to...it wasn't supposed to..." He sighed. "Let me explain."

"Please do."

"The thing is, I'm used to not telling anyone who didn't already know. It was always a secret. Even Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew."

Perhaps she could understand that. Alistair would have been considered a credible threat before Ostagar; she had heard the whispers worrying that Cailan had no heirs after five years of marriage. Had the King survived the battle, even his advisors would have surreptitiously begun searching for a credible successor. Elissa nodded, frowning to herself. 

"And once we where the only ones left?"

“I should have told you.” He sighed and shifted uncomfortably. “I don't know. It seemed like it was too late by then. How do you just _tell_ someone that?”

Elissa huffed. "I don't know. How about, 'by the way, if you're wondering why we're being targeted by elite assassins in addition to darkspawn, I'm heir to the throne?'"

He stifled a strained laugh and reddened. "Yes, well...I suppose part of me kind of liked you not knowing."

She blinked slowly. "You... _enjoyed_ not telling me?"

“It's just that anyone who's ever found out has treated me differently afterwards. I was the bastard prince instead of just being Alistair.” Another sigh, and his eyes fixed on the distant windmill rather than meeting her gaze. “I know that must sound stupid to you, but I hate that it's shaped my entire life. I never wanted it, and I _certainly_ don't want to be King. The very idea of it _terrifies me.”_

“The Landsmeet could find out, if they aren’t already aware.” Elissa shrugged and folded a knee loosely to her chest. “If they want you on the throne, I doubt they’ll just ask nicely.”

"You can say that again. I don't think I've ever had a choice in the matter. Right from when I was born, all my choices have been made for me. I guess I should be thankful that Arl Eamon is far more likely to inherit the throne."

Elissa held back an incredulous snort for his sake.

Was he serious? Did he truly think the Landsmeet was more likely to choose a new ruling family over, quite possibly, the last remaining heir to the Theirin line? They weren't even three decades past the end of the war Ferelden fought to _protect_ that blood.

“For what it's worth,” Alistair continued, “I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I...I guess I was just hoping that you would like me for who I am. It was a dumb thing to do.”

Elissa’s mind ground to a halt. He worried she wouldn’t like him for who he was?

The man who made her laugh when it felt like she'd never crack a smile again? Who made room in his own grief to allow space for hers? Who gave her tiny slivers of time where she felt nearly like the person she'd been mere months ago, where she could be _Elissa_ and not a faceless Warden?

The man making this Maker-forsaken Blight seem the least bit tolerable?

His words to her on the bridge outside the village struck her anew: _I'll_ _just pretend you still think I'm some...nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens._

Her anger resurfaced like a beast, tearing a growl of frustration from her chest as she threw a hand in the air.

"I _do_ like you!" she snapped, "And _not_ because of your blood!"

They both froze, eyes widening as the tension shifted.

"Oh, I... _oh._ ” He reddened to the tips of his ears, suddenly avoiding her gaze and rubbing the back of his neck. “You see, I didn't know that.”

”Because you’re clearly entirely unlikable,” she quipped, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat, “Right.”

Neither of them spoke for what seemed an eternity, both fixing their eyes on the worn wooden planks between them rather than addressing what had happened. Elissa was the first to break the new silence, sighing and folding her legs beneath her to stand. “Honestly. I don’t see where these ideas get in your head.”

”Well, you get told you’re somehow both useless _and_ a threat to the crown since you’re old enough to understand, you start thinking there’s something to it.”

”Whoever told you that needs a great deal of sense knocked into them.” Elissa had a few ideas on that front. If they found anyone alive in the castle, she owed a couple choice individuals a piece of her mind. 

“Does that mean you aren’t still angry?”

“Call it a truce,” she agreed, offering a hand to help him to his feet. She smiled sweetly as he took it, “As long as you don’t have any other surprises I should know about, that is?”

“Besides my unholy love of cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. That’s it. Just the prince thing.”

”Oh, is _that_ all?”

”Didn’t you _just_ say you’d let it go?”

”I believe I agreed to a truce. A conditional one. You’ll have to be craftier than that around your fellow exiled nobility.” She smirked and fell into a theatric bow, “Your Majesty.”

He crossed his arms and frowned. ”Is that _really_ necessary?”

”No. You're just fun to tease.” She stayed in her pose, but lifted her head to flash him a grin and wink, “My prince.”

”Oh, lovely. I’m going to regret this. Somehow I just know it.”

Elissa stood and laughed, folding her arms over her chest. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I’ll run out of titles eventually.”

He raised an eyebrow and took a step closer. ”And if I start doing the same to you?”

”You’ll run out before I do. I only had the one.” She shrugged and swayed forward, very nearly closing the remaining distance between them. Two could play this game. “Besides, I’m much better at holding out against _teasing_.”

He blushed again, blinking rapidly and stammering his words, ”Maker’s _breath_ , Liss!”

Liss. Not The Last of the Couslands, not The Warden. Not to him. Just Elissa. Or as close to herself as she could come. 

She was distracted enough she didn’t notice Wynne approaching them until the healer cleared her throat. 

“Am I..." Wynne looked pointedly between the pair of them, and the little distance that remained there, "...interrupting something?”

It was difficult not to bristle at her judgmental tone. What business was it of hers? _Oh, we were about to run off and ravish one other in the nearest convenient bush. Obviously. Why do you ask?_

It wasn't worth the fight. Elissa widened her eyes innocently. “Who, us?”

Wynne seemed unamused. “You’ve both been gone a while. Ser Perth is looking for you. He wants your approval on the oil barrel trap before nightfall.”

Elissa rolled her eyes, though she didn't allow Wynne to see that _too_ blatantly. "Of course. I'll be right there."

Wynne, to her credit, did reluctantly leave them alone again. She had little to worry about however; Alistair had stepped back and it seemed the moment had passed. 

"I..." He cleared his throat, "I guess it's kind of a relief that you know now. Let's go?"

"Right."

She was sure she would have her head on properly once they reached the top of the hill. Harmless flirting was fun, but they had a job to do. She would just have to ignore any lingering warmth and stay focused. Simple. She had done so before. 

But why did it feel so difficult this time?

**Author's Note:**

> This remains one of my favorite ways to start the Alistair romance. He just...short circuits and peaces out and I laugh every time. Poor guy.


End file.
